


Prologue 2: Missing Misfits

by BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk



Series: Poe Party 2: The Cursed Treasure of the Writer’s Scavenger Hunt [2]
Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series), Literary RPF
Genre: (Than To Join Byron On An Adventure), Anachronistic, Byron has been pining for both Eddie and Annabel, Consequences, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Keats Knows Better, Percy Shelley is Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk/pseuds/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk
Summary: Venice seemed palatable for Byron at that moment, wanting to indulge by recreating fantasies in another country somewhere in Europe. In his sojourn with willing company John Keats, he discovers something odd had happened to the apparently missing members of his Geneva squad. Well, the ones he knew should be around to say yes to his invitation.He wonders, standing in front of Annabel's, why no one has answered the door yet.





	Prologue 2: Missing Misfits

**Author's Note:**

> Highly required to watch Shipwrecked Comedy’s web series, Edgar Allan Poe’s Murder Mystery Dinner Party: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2T_dNZ-XW6UjWC-qUbZSWJyCLFmsdPP
> 
> Poe Party Extras: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2T_dNZ-XW5koycOUJ7VVfL8ddzoG4kA
> 
> Not as required but would be of great help, A Tell-Tale Vlog/Socially-Awkward Poe: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2T_dNZ-XW4tvX3cYwkGsObIxlbBSxIs

The road was not paved with cement. It was a dirt path, lined with various sorts of flowers. A rainbow-lined road, leading to a few houses that seemed to pop out here and there. Don't forget the greens exist, covering all that was not described.

 

 

 

"Nothing from Mary? At all?" Byron picked a daffodil, surprised how it grew alone among the snapdragons at his side of the road.

 

 

 

"She hasn't sent me anything since October of last year," Keats, trailing behind Byron, was collecting any flower he could find. In his arms laid some daisies, chamomiles, and hollyhocks.

 

 

 

"What was the last thing she said to you?"

 

 

 

"Something about whether or not I was invited to this poet's party," Keats stopped, getting a bundle of poppies.

 

 

 

Byron, daffodil in hand, turned back to face Keats. "Poet? Like that Wordsworth? Coleridge? Blake?"

 

 

 

"I don't think him a Romantic, Byron."

 

 

 

Byron slid the flower he held into his coat pocket. "...Victorian?"

 

 

 

"Not sure. Does Poe sound familiar to you?"

 

 

 

"American?" Byron was surprised. "I think I might've heard of him. His works are regarded well by some poets I know."

 

 

 

Keats neared Byron, hands full of flowers. "I wonder why Mary accepted. She has never discussed the man before."

 

 

 

"She can be moody, Mr. Keats," Byron placed an arm around his companion. "Maybe that party was an escape for her."

 

 

 

"I see," Keats distanced himself a little bit from Byron, uncomfortable being too near the satirist.

 

 

 

After some silence, zinnias, hyacinths, a surprising amount of rhododendrons, as well as valerian, Keats asked, "Where is it you are taking us? You have refused to disclose the location to me every time I've asked you."

 

 

 

"A dear friend of mine is within the recesses of my mind," Byron replied. "Eddie Dantes; he joined me, the Shelleys, and Pollydolly in Geneva."

 

 

 

Chuckling, "Pollydolly?"

 

 

 

"A name for my doctor."

 

 

 

"Ah," Keats responded. "What of Ms. Clairmont, Lord Byron?"

 

 

 

"Who?"

 

 

 

Immediately deducing how that woman was to Byron, "Never mind that. Tell me more about this friend of yours."

 

 

 

"Last time we met, he introduced to me the irresistible Annabel Lee," He stressed the word "irresistible".

 

 

 

"Must be one lucky fellow if this Annabel Lee can get that reaction out of you."

 

 

 

"The Lady herself is lucky, Mr. Keats!" Byron's face was as red as the poppies Keats had picked up earlier. "I intend to bring my friend and this Annabel Lee, who he is courting mind you, with me to Venice!

 

 

 

"That means I get to meet them then?"

 

 

 

"Hmm, I don't remember you saying yes to my invitation yet, Mr. Keats."

 

 

 

"Ah, well--"

 

 

 

"Tell me later," Byron stopped Keats with his arm, almost making his friend drop the flowers he had accumulated.

 

 

 

"Is this it?"

 

 

 

"This should be the place." Byron grinned.

 

 

 

The house was clearly made of brick, accented in shades of off-white and a soil-like red. Old but sturdy, the front of the structure was enveloped in a mix of green and brown vines.

 

 

 

"Wait here, friend." Byron said to Keats, who nodded and watched Byron walk up to the door.

 

 

 

Sliding out the flower on his coat, Byron noticed something peculiar on the floor.

 

 

 

"A note!" He said out loud, catching Keats's attention, who was busy making an arrangement of the flowers he picked.

 

 

 

"I don't think it's proper to read it,"

 

 

 

"So? I'll give it to the master of the house after!" Byron kicked the nice, smooth, and round rock atop the note.

 

 

 

He skimmed the paper, catching the repeated instances of "Annabel Lee" and "a kingdom by the sea," wondering who wrote such a poem.

 

 

 

"...what's in it?" Keats asked.

 

 

 

"Some declaration of love...by that same Poe we were discussing about!"

 

 

 

"How peculiar,"

 

 

 

"Indeed," He inserted the flower into the paper, keeping the objects into his coat.

 

 

 

Facing the door, Byron called out, "Mr. Dantes?"

 

 

 

No answer.

 

 

 

"Ms. Lee?"

 

 

"Have you tried knocking, sir?" Keats yelled, amused, from behind Byron, catching his attention.

 

 

 

Byron pouted at the poet's general direction, then went back to the door and knocked on it aggressively.

 

 

 

Still no answer.

 

 

 

"That's it, Keats,"

 

 

 

"Please don't-"

 

 

 

"Time to," Bryon grabbed the doorknob with energy, pulling as hard as he could, "break—"

 

 

 

The door couldn't budge. Byron stopped trying and stomped his foot in a tantrum-like manner. That hurt and he quickly bent down to clench said foot.

 

 

 

"That's what you get when you try to break in, Lord Byron."

 

 

 

"Oh shut up, Mr. Keats," Byron raised himself up and proceeded to Keats. "Can't believe they aren't home."

 

 

 

"Would you like to go to the tea parlor across the street?"

 

 

 

Byron paused.

 

 

 

"Well?"

 

 

 

"There's one more place we need to go."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And if Mary isn't actually home, what do you plan to do then?"

 

 

 

"Investigate, sir,"

 

 

 

Keats couldn't believe Byron's behavior. Actually, no. It's still believable.

 

 

 

Byron somehow wanted to go to the Shelley household; Mary rarely went out ever since her husband had passed away.

 

 

 

Keats waited at the front of the house as Byron walked up to the front.

 

 

 

As Byron was about to knock, the door slammed into his face, knocking him down to the ground, giving way to a stranger who quickly shut the door behind him.

 

 

 

"Lord Byron!" Keats exclaimed, running towards his friend.

 

 

 

Leaning against the door he had shut, the stranger caught the two young poets before him. "Oh dear!"

 

 

 

"Are you alright?" Keats asked Byron.

 

 

 

Getting up, "I'm quite alright."

 

 

 

Then facing the stranger, "Who are you and why were you inside Mary Shelley's house?"

 

 

 

“I deeply apologize for that, gentlemen,” The stranger chuckled awkwardly. Holding out his hand, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I believe you must be Lord Byron, sir?”

 

 

 

“Yes,” Byron shook on it as he dusted himself. “My companion, the wonderful John Keats!”

 

 

 

“Pleased to meet you, Sir,” Keats then shook hands with Doyle.

 

 

 

“Erm,” After parting hands with Keats, Doyle began to explain himself. “It ate up my curiosity when I realized some known individuals in the writing community have gone silent, or refused to answer.”

 

 

 

“So, you suspected that Miss Shelley was one of those individuals?” Keats asked.

 

 

 

“Well, yes. Actually,” Doyle pulled out a notepad from his coat. “All of these missing individuals have something in common—they were guests who were invited to Edgar Allan Poe’s party last year, if either you have heard of the event.”

 

 

 

“That’s what Mary told Keats before she went missing!” Byron stated. “In fact, two dear friends of mine were last reported headed there as well.”

 

 

 

“Oh?” Doyle then pulled out a pen. “Who are these writers?”

 

 

 

“Well, none of them are writers actually,”

 

 

 

“Now that’s odd!” Doyle flipped the pad to a good page. “All of the missing ones were all writers to my deduction. Do tell me their names, Lord Byron.”

 

 

 

“An Eduardo Dantes and an Annabel Lee, Sir.”

 

 

 

“I see,” Doyle wrote the names down. “Never heard of this Annabel Lee, but I know Dantes as the rival of my banker.”

 

 

 

“Small world, isn’t it?” Keats remarked.

 

 

 

“I suppose,” Doyle finished.

 

 

 

“How did you know the others who attended?” Byron asked.

 

 

 

“I am pen pals with fellow mystery writer Miss Agatha Christie,” Doyle said. “She took note of who else was invited and told me.”

 

 

 

“Did she go?” Keats asked.

 

 

 

“Yes, actually. Her last letter was her excitement about it. She said that she had felt that Poe might have been pandering to her tastes—something about giving the dinner party a murder mystery theme, which we all know is her specialty.”

 

 

 

Bryon chuckled, “Imagine how hilarious it would’ve been if it had turned into a mass homicide!”

 

 

 

“It would be a headache for the public,” Doyle said.

 

 

 

“And another adventure for the police,” Keats added.

 

 

 

“Okay,” Byron then wanted to shift back into the conversation. “Do you mind telling us who went missing?”

 

 

 

“Well,” Doyle scanned his notepad. “Our subject, Mary Shelley, is most definitely missing. Don’t need the ghost of her husband to tell me twice!”

 

 

 

Keats raised a brow, “Is that why you rushed out the house?”

 

 

 

“Explains her melancholy state of being,” Byron interjected. “Haunted by her dearly beloved.”

 

 

 

Keats repeated. “Again, is that why you ran out the house?”

 

 

 

“Yeah, I should stop trying to conjure spirits for clues.” Doyle tsked to himself. “I, after all, am not a trained conjurer.”

 

 

 

“Maybe that could be attempted in Venice,” Byron thought out loud.

 

 

 

“Please continue, Sir Doyle.” Keats said.

 

 

 

“Alright. So, there’s also my neighbor H. G. Wells; great friend Agatha Christie, actually; novelists George Eliot, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Louisa May Alcott; and poet Emily Dickinson.”

 

 

 

“Is that all?” Byron asked.

 

 

 

“Are these two friends of yours also missing?”

 

 

 

“We went to visit them earlier; they live together—neither of them answered the door.” Keats said.

 

 

 

“That is most suspicious!” Doyle then noted the two non-writers as missing guests. “Based on Miss Christie’s information, some ends are loose.”

 

 

 

“What do you mean, Sir Doyle?” Keats asked.

 

 

 

“There were people who did not attend and who did attend that are presently not missing,” Doyle began to ramble. “The ones who did not attend were Mark Twain, Leo Tolstoy, and my good friend J. M. Barrie. They know nothing of what happened.”

 

 

 

“And the ones who attended?” Byron asked.

 

 

 

“Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde, and Charlotte Brönte. The first two refused to talk about the party at all, which seemed odd enough in itself. Even more peculiar is the fact that I cannot even speak with Miss Brönte!”

 

 

 

“Oh right!” Keats spoke. “I heard she and her sister were arrested for undisclosed reasons.”

 

 

 

“What?!” Byron was shocked.

 

 

 

“Right?” Doyle was incredulous as well. “I was planning to go to Mr. Poe’s house, but I wanted to make sure those who were missing were genuinely missing. Carefully, I waited a few months to secure it and am now finished.”

 

 

 

Before one of the poets could continue, Doyle laughed. “You know, gentlemen? Poe himself,” he pulled out an invitation, “is hosting another party.”

 

 

 

“That is most terrifying and peculiar!” Keats exclaimed.

 

 

 

“Classic Edgar Allan Poe, being terrifying and peculiar,” Doyle remarked. “I am going to use this second party as an opportunity to investigate the whereabouts of these missing people!”

 

 

 

“That sounds exciting, Sir!” Byron was very intrigued.

 

 

 

“I agree,” Keats agreed.

 

 

 

“Is there perhaps some way we could join you?” Byron asked.

 

 

 

“No need to include me, Byron,”

 

 

 

“Well, is there perhaps some way I could join you?”

 

 

 

“Let’s see,” Doyle looked into the invitation. “Ah! It says that I just have to inform Mr. Poe that if ever, I could bring a plus one!”

 

 

 

“Splendid!” Byron exclaimed. “Perhaps Venice can wait a bit if I could attend that party with you, Sir!”

 

 

 

The two laughed.

 

 

 

“You know,” Keats broke the laughter. “Something doesn’t sit well with me right now.”

 

 

 

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Keats?” Byron asked, curiously.

 

 

 

“Remember the note you found at the doorstep?”

 

 

 

“Goodness, you’re right!”

 

 

 

“A note?” Doyle was curious.

 

 

 

“Oh yes, Sir!” Byron went to explain. “When we went to check, I found this note by the doorstep of my dear friends’ house. It was a poem about Miss Annabel Lee, in the words of Mr. Poe.”

 

 

 

“That settles it! Poe must be interrogated!”

 

 

“Aye!” The other two responded in determination.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone remember Shelley mentioning her connections to Eddie? In the Poe Party universe, Eddie was in Geneva with the known participants, attempting to take credit of Mary's early written work done there
> 
> This is prologue 2 buds!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this one!
> 
> Edgar Allan Poe’s Murder Mystery Dinner Party belongs to Shipwrecked Comedy
> 
> Prologue 3 is very plot important, and contains one writer who will be in the main story


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